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  • Locked thread
Nikaer Drekin
Oct 11, 2012

THUNDERDOME LOSER 2020
Okay, I've got something in mind that I think'll be good. Hopefully it won't be considered too far from the original story- it's almost more of a companion piece or an explanation than a true rewrite.

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Voliun
May 31, 2012

CancerCakes posted:

I'm in, the moment I saw this I wanted suit on suit but its taken. I'll post what story I'm rewriting after I've trawled through some thunderdomes.


You can take it if you wish. I'll just use this story by toanoradian.That is, if its possible to change it.

And thanks for the crits judges. I'm very sorry if my entry made you weep.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


BLO OD E M PR E SS

of

THUDNER-DOME





Voliun posted:

You can take it if you wish. I'll just use this story by toanoradian.That is, if its possible to change it.

And thanks for the crits judges. I'm very sorry if my entry made you weep.

Fine with me.

angel opportunity
Sep 7, 2004

Total Eclipse of the Heart
Chairchucker, I have done great things with your piece of poo poo.

magnificent7
Sep 22, 2005

THUNDERDOME LOSER

Sitting Here posted:

I'm on to your fourth rear end in a top hat, actually. Chop chop.
Just to be sure - you DID write that story right? I found it this morning, copied, pasted, read it. And now? Can't find the drat thing.

FOR REFERENCE because I can't find the original post again, here is SH's original story:

Sitting Here posted:

Don't Bite the Eye that Feeds
746 words

I noticed him on a hot summer day, and at first I figured he was just snapping pictures of the girls in their little skirts and tank tops. But there was a look on his face, something intense and expectant. He would stop and sweep the camera around like it was a pistol and he had point in a zombie movie.

He always appeared at rush hour, right there at 34th and 6th, just when the sun beat down heavy from a thousand reflective windowpanes. That hungry camera eye would makes its sweep, taking in businessmen and shoppers and bums and traffic cops alike.

The first time I tried to follow him, an ancient old lady threw herself into the ground in my path. I say threw, but to the passersby it looked like I had tripped the wretch and people waiting at the crosswalk muttered and threw glares my way until I helped the woman up.

"Much obliged," I muttered at her profuse and completely feigned thanks. By then the camera man was gone.

The second time I was smarter. I caught him early on his route down 34th and tailed him, ten feet and a group of high school students the only thing between us. I didn't see what started the fight, only that there were people, strange people, and they were jeering and shoving the students and the camera man was far away and I was trapped on the wrong side of a sea of embattled limbs.

Just as quickly as it began, the fight ended, the instigators melting into the rush hour foot traffic.

The third time, I resolved, would be the last. My unseen antagonists apparently felt the same way, because this time the camera man led me into the trap. I was close, so close I could see the little hairs on the back of his neck, the damp of perspiration in his hair, the way his breath moved under his black T-shirt. I was almost pressed against him as the crowd built up on the sidewalk, waiting for the light.

It turned.

Or so I thought. The camera man stepped forward and I was so intent on him that I stepped forward too, not looking both ways, not seeing the van that bared down on me. He darted forward. Strangers gasped. Then I was falling backward and the van was passing inches from my feet and someone's arms were wrapped around me.

"Leave it be," hissed a man's voice in my ear. His breath smelled like clove cigarettes. "You don't want to know. Leave it be." Numb with shock, I nodded. The arms slipped away and I tried to turn around to face him, but then the light finally did change and I was carried into the street with the crowd.



I stayed clear of 34th and 6th, hell, the whole drat area. I set aside the unease at the feeling that I'd brushed up against something massive and horrible. I dreamed. A man's breath; the smell of clove cigarettes. A voice filled with sad compassion. Leave it be.

I wanted to.

I was at Madison Square Park when I saw the camera woman. Same sweeping motion, same hungry lens. She swallowed strollers and children and sun bathers, and when she turned that glass eye on the William H. Seward monument, and I swear that it was diminished somehow. One moment it had beenthere, fixed in the here and now. The next moment it was less itself, less a part of the living present.

I tried to shake off the black spots in my vision, and suddenly the pavement was rising to meet me. She looked at me. She looked at me. She raised her camera. I smelled clove cigarettes, and dimly remembered that they'd been banned in the U.S. some years before. Odd.

He stepped in from of me, the man with cloves on his breath, and I could see that he held what could only be a mirror. I saw the woman's mouth form an "O" of surprise, even as her lens turned to capture us.

It swallowed itself instead. The whole world shifted inward to make up for the sudden gap in reality that had moments before been a woman. I lost consciousness in earnest that time, and in my last seconds of wakefulness I felt him kneel, smelled the exotic flavors on his tongue.

"Well done," he murmured.

I could only sleep and wonder.

magnificent7 fucked around with this message at 19:21 on Apr 9, 2013

Noah
May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch
Thunderbrawl Noah v Martello
Prompt: A Medical Professional in a Violent Milieu.

The Most Amount of Good

Words: 2000

Jorge Gonzalo believed in two things: That all living things deserved compassion, and to do the most amount of good in any situation. Sometimes, when he would sit on the cinderblock steps of the warehouse back porch, covered to his elbows in blood, smoking unfiltered cigarettes, he had doubts about number one.

His hand quivered, the xylazine had completely worn off. The cigarette burnt down to the end as he stared off into the cow pasture. Jorge envied the cows. Nothing to worry about. Their death would be painless and invisible. Bringing the cigarette to his mouth, blood smeared his face as his hand shook harder. He had forgotten to take his gloves off.

He ripped the gloves off and threw them into the yard. Resting his elbows on his knees, he cradled his chin in sweaty hands. Behind him he heard heavy steps.

“Hey, my friend, how is he? How is my Rompiendo?” Manny said. Jorge took a drag.

“He’ll live. Barely. He needs chlorpromazine, several times a day. Clean and re-wrap the bandages twice a day.”

Manny looked blank.

“I’ll write it down,” Jorge said, miming writing a note. Manny nodded and smiled. As Manny started to turn, Jorge grabbed him by the wrist.

“Don’t let him fight anymore. Stop. You’ll kill him.”

Small sores and dried blood lined Jorge’s wrist, and Manny tugged hard to break Jorge’s grip. Manny raised his other hand, in it was a chain choker collar. Jorge let go, causing Manny to stumble. Manny spat and walked away.

At the moment, the sores didn’t itch or hurt, but Jorge knew they would soon. Powder from the latex gloves irritated them. He had asked for hypo-allergenic ones long ago but Mr. Rivera wouldn’t order anymore unless he was out of his current box. Sometimes he would double wrap gloves just to get through them faster.

Leaning to the side, he pulled his wallet out. Inside was a weathered and folded piece of plain white paper. Creases every which way peaked and dipped from years of haphazard folding. On it was Jorge’s decade old rejection letter to veterinary school. Jorge read the opening line over and over again. We regret to inform you.

He spat, letting the cigarette fall out of his mouth at the same time. Stomping it into the ground, he turned and walked through the warehouse and makeshift kennel. Dogs barked at him, not ferociously, but with a warm greeting. His hand trembled as he let them lick his fingers through the cages. Pepito, an errand boy no older than 12, was up to his neck in rubber overalls. He carried a bucket of soapy water and a push-broom that looked comically too big in the boy’s hands. In an open area of the warehouse shoddy bleachers stood covered in sticky fluids and scraps of worthless betting tickets. Jorge watched him splash the water in the space in front of the bleachers where the dogs fought.

Waves of crimson, soapy water circled the drain as Pepito sloshed the water everywhere. Scritch, scritch, scritch, the familiar sound of the wet push-broom sent chills up Jorge’s arms. Nausea swelled in his stomach, and he salivated. Barking echoed off the warehouse as the broom picked up speed. Outside, a man and a boy were talking to Mr. Rivera. They threw the body of a dog into the bed of a blue truck. The boy was crying. Mr. Rivera took out a wad of bills from his pants and flicked out a couple to the man. After a pat on the shoulder, the man loaded the boy into the cab and the truck trundled away on a dirt road. The boy had never stopped sobbing.

“Jorge, ah there you are. Are you feeling okay?Enfermo?” Mr. Rivera said.

Jorge shook his head. “No, I’m fine.” He swallowed a mouthful of saliva and shook all over. “I need to order more supplies, we’re running low.”

“Jorge, are we running low, or are we out?

Jorge sighed.

“Just low.”

“Ha ha, you are a good man Jorge, you do good work for me. Make a list of things you need and we will go over it tomorrow,” Mr. Rivera said. Jorge nodded. Mr. Rivera turned and walked away.

“Mr. Rivera?”

“Yes, my friend?”

“How long?”

“One more month, Jorge, just one more month.”

“You said that last month,” Jorge said, swallowing another mouthful of saliva. His head ached and he felt pressure on his temples.

Mr. Rivera walked back over to him and spoke softer.

“Jorge, you owe me a lot of money, please do not forget that.”

Jorge’s vision blurred and his knees buckled. The world swayed, and the air became heavy, pressing him down into the mud. His head rocked as it hit the ground.

“Jorge are you okay? Jorge, estas bien? Jorge?”

Jorge woke up on in his bed, still covered in dry blood and mud. He leaned over the side and vomited onto the ground. Sweaty and itchy all over, he crashed through his bedside table drawers, grabbing a small plastic bag. Twisted around and tied shut with a rubber band, the bag held a small white, powdery nugget of heroin, cocaine and xylazine mixture. Throwing it into the cooker, it gave off a smell of strong medicine.

The smell of the mixture made Jorge’s muscles relax. When it was ready, he took a small syringe and found a spot on his arm. He stopped caring who saw the track marks, the sores kept people far enough away from him anyway. He settled back into the pillows, letting everything go, the vomit, the ravaged drawers, the mud and blood in his bed. He dreamed of being in a real clinic, in Miami maybe, fixing all the poor, sick little dogs of attractive, rich blonde women. That would be Jorge one day. Putting a cast on a little chihuahua, and having sex on the beach. Yeah, that’s going be me, he thought with a smile plastered on his face.

Pepito shook Jorge by the shoulders.

Despiértate, Jorge! Despiértate!!”

Jorge shot out of bed, it was still dark out.

“What, what do you want?”

“It’s Rompiendo! He’s hurt, real real bad,” Pepito said. Jorge panicked, had he botched the surgery? His hands trembled as he grabbed everything he needed. Pepito ran ahead, shouting for Jorge to catch up, but the mud was so deep, it went up to his waist. Jorge lit a cigarette with shaky hands, trying to get in a couple of drags. As he entered the warehouse everything twisted and turned, causing him to stagger. He faltered, and put his hand out. As he moved past the kennels, the dogs didn’t bark, they chanted: “Save him. Save him.”

Behind a plastic sheet, at the end of the warehouse was the makeshift operating room. The towering monolith in the center was the operating table. On the cold, metal slab of a table, Rompiendo lay breathing heavily. Fresh blood oozed out of him, and waterfalled off the table, creating a vast ocean. Jorge stomped out his cigarette and waded knee-deep into the blood.

“Gloves!”

These wounds were new, but how, he wondered. His hands stroked the dog’s muscular shoulders and neck, searching for the wounds that he had sewn shut just a few hours ago. He found the lines of the old wounds, but the sutures were gone, dissolved.

“What day is it?!” Jorge shouted. Pepito looked at him with wide white eyes, melting like runny eggs.

“It’s Saturday, my friend,” Manny said from the shadows. Manny was perched upon a bird stand, black feathers sticking out from under his t-shirt. It had been 6 days since he had last seen Rompiendo, but he could not remember anything in between.

“What the hell did you do? I loving told you not to fight,” Jorge spat. Manny glared at him, but turned his head away. “It’s okay, boy, it’s okay,” Jorge said, stroking the dog again.

“Scissors,” Jorge said, holding out his hands. No one moved. “Scissors!” Pepito jumped and grabbed a small pair of surgical scissors from a nearby counter.

“Mix the cornstarch with water, Pepito, thick,” Jorge continued. Jorge inspected Rompiendo over, and over, looking for all the bite marks and re-opened wounds.

“He still won, my Rompiendo,” Manny squawked, his voice cracking. “He will never lose!”

Jorge bit the side of his mouth as he worked. He slathered the corn starch paste over the wounds he couldn’t work on at the moment. Jorge poured alcohol on the wounds he was ready work on, causing Rompiendo to yelp and twitch.

“It hurts Jorge, it hurts,” Rompiendo said. “Just let me die.”

“Shhh, shhh, Rompiendo, it will be okay,” Jorge said. “Xylazine, quickly.” Adrenaline surged, making his muscles bulge and balloon, but he had to keep it together. For Rompiendo. Primal electricity coursed through him, heating him up. Salty, dirty sweat stung his eyes.

“I don’t want to fight anymore, Jorge,” Rompiendo said.

“I know, I know, don’t worry,” Jorge said.

Pepito filled a syringe three feet long and handed it to Jorge. As Jorge picked it up his hands grew, tripling in size. Injecting the xylazine, Rompiendo relaxed immediately. Jorge moved methodically from one gaping, volcano-like hole to the next, washing away the corn starch plug with alcohol and soapy water, and tearing open new suture cases. In between washing the plug and starting to sew it shut, the wound would erupt blood, sending it spouting toward the ceiling. Empty shells of sterilized suture cases floated idly in the ocean of blood.

“Pepito, nose,” Jorge said. Pepito’s fingers extended and stretched, scratching Jorge’s itchy nose. Outside the moon passed by the window, and then the sun, and then the moon again, and Jorge finally finished. Exhausted, he let his body go, he couldn’t hold it up anymore. The blood ocean was gone, drained all away. Jorge wanted to throw up. He tossed his bloody gloves onto the concrete warehouse floor. He took in deep breaths and watched as Rompiendo raised his head and turned to him.

“Once more unto the breach, then? Thanks,” Rompiendo said to him. Jorge paused and looked at the dog. Rompiendo put his head back down, and breathed slowly, but heavily. Jorge giggled. Giggling turned into chuckling, and chuckling turned into raucous laughter. He wiped his eyes with his bloody forearm, his tears mixing with dog blood, making him look like a demented harlequin. He swiped supplies off the counters. Pepito and Manny pressed themselves against the back of the warehouse walls.

Jorge slumped to the ground still laughing. A sob poked through at the end of a laugh. Dogs howled and barked, cutting through his laughter and echoing off the warehouse walls. Tears flushed some of the dog blood out of his eyes, but he kept laughing. Standing, and still chuckling, he stumbled past the wild eyed Pepito and Manny. He grabbed the bottle of xylazine on his way out.

Digging through his bedside table, he took out another plastic bag. Putting the rock in the cooker, he plugged a syringe into the top of the xylazine bottle. He emptied the needle of xylazine into his arm, and hunched forward, still giggling. He took the syringe and filled it again. Almost dropping it, his fingers started going numb. Pounding it into his thigh, he pressed on the plunger.

With a smile on his face, he crawled into bed and thought of laying out poolside in Miami. Next to him, a blonde with fake breasts, and on the other side a pit bull. A mix probably, from a shelter, a rescue dog, yeah, that’s what he would get. Violet, he would name the dog Violet. Something soft, more its nature.

Pepito found Jorge two days later. He shook Jorge.

“Jorge! Estas bien, Jorge? Jorge!”

No matter how hard Pepito shook, he could not shake the smile off of Jorge’s face.

CancerCakes
Jan 10, 2006

Voliun posted:

You can take it if you wish. I'll just use this story by toanoradian.That is, if its possible to change it.

And thanks for the crits judges. I'm very sorry if my entry made you weep.

You are a cool dude, cheers. Put me down for suit on suit. Also I will crit the last piece submitted before the deadline, because inflicting my horrible opinions on other people is how I spend my holidays.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


BLO OD E M PR E SS

of

THUDNER-DOME





magnificent7 posted:

Just to be sure - you DID write that story right? I found it this morning, copied, pasted, read it. And now? Can't find the drat thing.

FOR REFERENCE because I can't find the original post again, here is SH's original story:

You know, I know the one you're talking about and I can't find it either.

:siren:Flashrule: Magnificent7 must find my story I don't remember writing

Noah
May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch
I'm in with Jimson's Blue and Pink from Week 8: http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3499761&userid=0&perpage=40&pagenumber=34#post408042330

His story was 130 words over that week's limit, so I will only be allowed 1,500. He was also 3 days late, so gently caress, I guess I'll be on time?

magnificent7
Sep 22, 2005

THUNDERDOME LOSER

Sitting Here posted:

You know, I know the one you're talking about and I can't find it either.

:siren:Flashrule: Magnificent7 must find my story I don't remember writing

Four posts above you.
http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3527428&pagenumber=50&perpage=40#post414263489

And how many flashrules can one participant get slammed with?

Jagermonster
May 7, 2005

Hey - NIZE HAT!

Sitting Here posted:


Also since I'm feeling capricious, from right now until whenever I get bored I will assign a story to anyone who asks. This may work out well for you, it may not.

Can you assign me one, please? Thank you.

CancerCakes
Jan 10, 2006

Sitting Here posted:

Everyone else, I've updated the prompt post. After this post, y'all can find your own drat stories, though I reserve the right to do whatever the hell I want.

:munch:

Fanky Malloons
Aug 21, 2010

Is your social worker inside that horse?

Sitting Here posted:

Get in Fanky or I'll ban you from the club house.

I didn't say I wasn't in, girlfriend.

SpaceGodzilla
Sep 24, 2012

I sure hope Godzilla-senpai notices me~

magnificent7 posted:

Four posts above you.
http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3527428&pagenumber=50&perpage=40#post414263489

And how many flashrules can one participant get slammed with?

I managed to find the original post easily just now. Hint: Google indexes the SA forums!

magnificent7
Sep 22, 2005

THUNDERDOME LOSER

SpaceGodzilla posted:

I managed to find the original post easily just now. Hint: Google indexes the SA forums!
Y'all are making me look stupider and stupider. This is going to be easy/impossible.

Jagermonster
May 7, 2005

Hey - NIZE HAT!

Nevermind, didn't see the change. Will find one.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


BLO OD E M PR E SS

of

THUDNER-DOME





^^^^that was a close one

magnificent7 posted:

Y'all are making me look stupider and stupider. This is going to be easy/impossible.

:siren:Flash Rule: For his cleverness, I award you to SpaceGodzilla as his whipping boy/girl.

SpaceGodzilla, you are hereby entitled to one(1) flash rule, valid only for magnificent7's entry in this week of Thunderdome.

magnificent7
Sep 22, 2005

THUNDERDOME LOSER

Sitting Here posted:

^^^^that was a close one


:siren:Flash Rule: For his cleverness, I award you to SpaceGodzilla as his whipping boy/girl.

SpaceGodzilla, you are hereby entitled to one(1) flash rule, valid only for magnificent7's entry in this week of Thunderdome.

Oh goddamn COME ON.

twinkle cave
Dec 20, 2012

THUNDERBRAWL LOSER
Thunderbrawlduel Noah v Martello
Prompt: A Medical Professional in a Violent Milieu.

You got some hours Martello HUMONGOUS. Hope you didn't forget cause Noah has already launched his volley. No pressure. None at all.

twinkle cave fucked around with this message at 22:37 on Apr 9, 2013

twinkle cave
Dec 20, 2012

THUNDERBRAWL LOSER

SpaceGodzilla posted:

Hank the Petulant Vibrator is getting a dark and gritty reboot :getin:

I can't loving wait to see this!

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002

I

AM

MAGNIFICENT






whomever was assigning stories, please assign me one as well.

Noah
May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch
Look at this mess you've made, Sitting Here.

SpaceGodzilla
Sep 24, 2012

I sure hope Godzilla-senpai notices me~
:frogsiren: FLASH RULE for magnificent7 :frogsiren:

Because of your namesake, your story must take place either in the the Old West OR Sengoku-Era Japan

How will that work? You figure it out.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









SpaceGodzilla posted:

:frogsiren: FLASH RULE for magnificent7 :frogsiren:

Because of your namesake, your story must take place either in the the Old West OR Sengoku-Era Japan

How will that work? You figure it out.

:allears:

Oh magnificent7 we have such wonders to show you.

I have choosed RIP my dog he died as such things do. It is choice, as my people say. It is a choice choice.

Incidentally if people are looking for old stories the previous Thunderdome thread got moved into Comedy Purgatory, probably because Shorn-Boner threw up on the mods' shoes.

crabrock posted:

whomever was assigning stories, please assign me one as well.

Have Yardwork. And get some initiative; this passivity will do you no good round here.

sebmojo fucked around with this message at 22:55 on Apr 9, 2013

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


BLO OD E M PR E SS

of

THUDNER-DOME





sebmojo posted:

:allears:

Oh magnificent7 we have such wonders to show you.

I have choosed RIP my dog he died as such things do. It is choice, as my people say. It is a choice choice.

Incidentally if people are looking for old stories the previous Thunderdome thread got moved into Comedy Purgatory, probably because Shorn-Boner threw up on the mods' shoes.


Have Yardwork. And get some initiative; this passivity will do you no good round here.

Usurper! Pretender! Nemesis.

...way to take initiative. I endorse this post.


SpaceGodzilla posted:

:frogsiren: FLASH RULE for magnificent7 :frogsiren:

Because of your namesake, your story must take place either in the the Old West OR Sengoku-Era Japan

How will that work? You figure it out.

Bold. Daring. I like it. Lets see if Magnificent7 can handle that massive pair of brass balls you just hot-potatoed his way.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


BLO OD E M PR E SS

of

THUDNER-DOME





Noah posted:

Look at this mess you've made, Sitting Here.

Well the poo was already there, did I "make" the mess if I just smeared it around a bit?

Black Griffon
Mar 12, 2005

DOUBLE THUNDERDOME LOSER 2021

Martello posted:

black_griffon.txt

I have a reputation to uphold babe.

Also; Prowling of the Night Raider by kangaroojunk

What the gently caress have I gotten myself into.

What the gently caress have I gotten myself into.

Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW

Black Griffon posted:

I have a reputation to uphold babe.

Also; Prowling of the Night Raider by kangaroojunk

What the gently caress have I gotten myself into.

What the gently caress have I gotten myself into.

Haha. He's in my wedding btw. And the Shadowrun campaign I'm about to start running over in Trad Games.

magnificent7
Sep 22, 2005

THUNDERDOME LOSER

Sitting Here posted:

Bold. Daring. I like it. Lets see if Magnificent7 can handle that massive pair of brass balls you just hot-potatoed his way.
I can't stop laughing at hot potatoed brass balls. I've already started to spin my yarn. In my head. I had to try to explain to my wife why I was laughing.

Oh that's right. You heard me. I have a wife.

autism ZX spectrum
Feb 7, 2007

by Lowtax
Fun Shoe

magnificent7 posted:

I can't stop laughing at hot potatoed brass balls. I've already started to spin my yarn. In my head. I had to try to explain to my wife why I was laughing.

Oh that's right. You heard me. I have a wife.

Fanky Malloons
Aug 21, 2010

Is your social worker inside that horse?
OKay, here are the rest of my crits from whenthefuckever. Doing these was like having needles shoved under my fingernails because you can never understand how loving lazy I am, so you better appreciate it :argh:

CancerCakes posted:

Agnatic-Cerebratic Succession

It's hard for me to put my finger on why I hated this so much, it's pretty technically sound, but the content is just...ugh. Right from the beginning you're beating the reader over the head with the fact that you're building up to some kind of punchline, and your apparent knowledge of headlines about the Royal family. It's just so unsubtle, it assumes the reader is literally retarded and it makes me want to vomit with rage. For example, this line: “Harry, my boy, I would like to pick your brain: have you ever wondered how my grandmother, The Queen Mother, lived to 101?” Why the hell does Prince Charles, heir to the throne, need to explain to Prince Harry, his son, second in line to the throne, who his own great grandmother, the Queen Mother, mother of the Queen of England is?

Maybe I'm dense, but I don't understand the title? It's decently written, but there's no clear motivation for why this character is leaving his wife at the altar. I feel like there's two stories going on here, the wedding thing, and the relationship with the father, and the piece is just too short to have both of them there at the same time. However, your story does stand as an example to Willy Style of the good way to write this type of scenario, so let's move on to that story, shall we?

Will Styles posted:

Metamorphosis
Oh look, a gay character who likes musicals and wants to run away from home and become a Broadway superstar. And he has a dramatic monologue about living his life because he's too precious for the mines. And then his gruff, manly Dad begrudgingly accepts him for who he is and everybody wins in the end. I would crtitque this fully but I might die of boredom before I got to the end. You need to learn what a cliche is and then never ever use one again.

systran posted:

Ex Cathedra
This was pretty great, expecially for it being so short - it truly was some efficient prose you had going on there. My only real problem with it is that the part after the break is a little confusing because the jump from present to past is kind of unclear ("The Pope spoke his final words...")

HiddenGecko posted:

The Brine Vats
All I could think about while reading this was the brain aliens from Futurama. I don't think the extractor in this needs to be a person - it seems almost like a throwaway detail, and to me it's actually more interesting if he/it is actually a machine, because then there's a whole extra layer of depersonalization. Also, there's definitely some missing detail regarding how these disembodied brains assist the living. And why do they go back and forth between screaming and having polite brain-conversations?
PS: Don't think I didn't notice you switching tenses after the first paragraph, you jerk.

sebmojo posted:

Birdsong
This was really nice and I don't really have much to say about it. I like the dialogue and the clear relationship between the two characters that you were able to capture in so few words, buuuut it was kind of a boring execution of the prompt and that's why you didn't win. (Also, you can't win all the time so just stop being so good at writing or something, jeez)

JuniperCake
Jan 26, 2013
This should be a fun prompt.
I'll try to rewrite The Apocalypse of Peters by CancerCakes from Week 25: What they deserve
Original was 999 words, so my word limit will be 1099.

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002

I

AM

MAGNIFICENT






sebmojo posted:

Have Yardwork. And get some initiative; this passivity will do you no good round here.

I'll take being called passive if it means i don't have to go read a bunch of bad stories. Thanks.

Martello
Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW
Thunderduel: Noah vs Martello

Trauma Patch

1974 words

Jason Cobbs wiped his bloody hands on his tan combat pants and then scrubbed his fingers through his shaggy red hair. Grover wasn’t going to make it.

Cobbs snapped at his team leader over his shoulder. “Boss, I need to get him on a vic and exfil him, right loving now!”

“Utah’s bringing the truck around,” Bronco said. He paused to fire a burst with his assault rifle. “Can you keep him stable?”

“Uh.” Cobbs checked Grover’s biomonitor in his AR display. Lines were weak, most of them flat already. Critical blood loss, severe organ trauma, the diagnostic ar-box whined at him in red letters. “I dunno, he’s fading fast.” He slapped another trauma patch on his right arm, just for something to do. The tube of fibrin gel in his medpack was already empty, and the gash running from Grover’s neck to his hip wasn’t all the way closed at the bottom.

“Do what you can.” Bronco’s voice was clipped. He put more rounds downrange, trying to keep the Igbo rebel heads down.

“Cobbs.” Grover’s voice was little more than a moan. “Cobbs. Tell my mom I love her, man.”

“Shut the gently caress up and hold on,” Cobbs said. He gritted his teeth, looked at the skinny machine gunner’s drawn, dark face. He remembered their days in 1st Ranger Battalion together, remembered his easy smile. “Just hold on.”

Days like this, Cobbs really hated his job.

#

It was only the second mission with the new team leader, a brick shithouse ex-10th Mountain, ex-con from Jersey named Bronco Halligan. Bronco, of all things. Cobbs hoped it wasn’t some kind of Italian stallion joke but it probably was, from the look of the guy.

They got the mission brief the night before hit time. Just after dinner, Fox had all of Viking Section in the briefing room looking at graphics and listening to the scheme of maneuver.

“So it’s an easy smash n’ grab,” he wrapped up. “Hit the house, pull out the bomb maker and kill everyone else inside who looks at you funny. Any questions?”

Rushmore, Team One leader, raised a hand. “Intel says no other INF should be in town?”

“That’s what they tell us,” Fox said. “But we know to prepare for the worst.”

“Alrighty,” Rushmore said. He put his hand down.

“Okay, no other questions?” Fox scanned the room, no takers. “Again, step-off is at zero-four-thirty. No drinking tonight. Dismissed.”

#

Cobbs was cleaning his FN assault rifle when the door buzzed. Must have been his roommate coming back early. No luck with that local girl, apparently. Cobbs swiveled his chair and the door panel told him a different story. Agnieszka “Utah” Rybczyński stood in the hallway.

“Hey,” Cobbs said as he opened the door. “Shouldn’t you be in bed already?”

“I uh,” Utah looked up at him through blonde eyelashes. “I couldn’t get to sleep right away and I have a,” she gave him a little smile, “a lady problem.”

“Ah, poo poo.” Cobbs stepped back from the door and motioned towards his bed. “Step into my examination room.”

Utah walked in, strategically brushing her breasts against his stomach as she passed. Big as those things were, there was no way she didn’t know where she was putting them. She sat down on his bed and waited for him to shut the door and walk over to her.

“Sorry, Jason, I just got really concerned and suddenly had to get looked at before go-time tomorrow.”

Cobbs shook his head, a smile on his freckled face. “It’s okay, I know how you are. Well, open ‘er up.”

Utah hiked up her pleated skirt and bent her knees to pull her panties off. She spread her short, muscular thighs for inspection. Cobbs opened his doctor’s bag and squatted down in front of her. He switched on his eye-lights with a neural command and looked in between her legs.

“Hm.” He grabbed a speculum from his bag and inserted it. “Everything looks alright so far.”

“But it’s all red and sore as gently caress,” Utah said.

“Swelling and redness consistent with, ah, vigorous sexual activity.” Cobbs grinned up at her. “You’ve been breaking in the new team leader, haven’t you.”

“Of course.” Utah wiggled her eyebrows and ran her tongue across her upper teeth. “He needed the standard welcome.”

Cobbs rolled his eyes. “Be careful, girl. Take your pills and everything.”

“You know I do. You done down there?”

“Yeah, everything’s in order.” He pulled the speculum out and put it back in his bag.

Utah got her underwear back on and smoothed her skirt back down. “Thanks, Jason.”

“My job,” Cobbs said. He stood up. “Need anything else?”

“No.” Utah took a couple steps towards the door, then turned around, hip cocked. “Unless you want to…” She trailed off, that tongue caressing her teeth again.

“No, not anymore.” Cobbs watched her face fall. “Sorry, trying to keep that long-distance thing with the girl back home. Keep it working, you know?”

“I guess I know, but I can’t really understand it.”

“We handle the sex part virtually, it really isn’t that bad with the harness and especially the new – ”

Utah put up her hand. “I don’t want to hear about it.” She fluttered her fingers and rolled her eyes around, tongue out. “I dunno, that virch stuff just creeps me out. How do you know nobody else is, like, feeling the same things you and your girl are feeling?”

“Who cares? C’mon, you’ve been in three-ways – ”

“Try four-ways,” Utah said.

“Four-ways. What’s the difference?”

“I dunno, it’s just loving creepy.” She shivered. “Anyway, thanks again for the look. I gotta head to bed, all that driving tomorrow.”

“Okay, g’night.” Utah almost got to the door before Cobbs stopped her with “One more thing. Is Bronco really, y’know, a bronco?”

Utah’s lips spread in a wide smile. “Oh, you better loving believe it, gingerboy.”

She spun on her heel and left the room. Cobbs finished cleaning his rifle and hung it on the wall rack before sprawling into bed.

#

Zero-four-thirty, go time. Cobbs shifted in his seat in the Team Two truck, a big General Dynamics Dingo. He had rear-left, next to the team grenadier. Baba was one of two locals in the team, a Yoruba like Peter the vehicle gunner. Peter’s seat was raised in the middle of the truck with the gun console, Grover the machine gunner and Raymond the riflemen on either side of him. Utah drove with Bronco in the commander’s seat to her right.

Cobbs heard Bronco’s voice through his jawbone tape-mic, section channel. “Viking Six, this is Viking Two, we are redcon one at this time.”

“Two, Six. Roger.” Fox’s voice.

Rushmore’s Canadian country accent next, “This is Viking One, redcon one.”

“One, this is Six, acknowledged.” Squelch-break and pause. “Heavy, you good?”

The radio squelched for a second, then Diablo Moreno’s excited voice, “Oh gently caress yeah, papi, was, ah, fixing comms issue. Redcon one, at this time, roger.”

Fox chuckled over the radio before replying. “Yeah roger, Heavy, acknowledged. Okay, people, let’s roll out.” All four Dingoes rumbled out the gate, leaving the Andrus & Vergeer compound behind and heading towards the A1 to Ibadan.

#

The mission wasn’t a simple smash n grab. Ibadan turned out to be crawling with Igbo National Front guerillas, and the separatist fanatics really didn’t want Viking Section to snatch Dele Emmanuel, not at all. Everything went fine at first. The target house went over easy, the goons inside completely unsuspecting. The mercenaries killed all eleven of them and subdued Emmanuel without too much trouble.

It was the exfil that went tits-up. Grover took a flechette round from a sniper rifle while lying prone behind his Ultimax, laying down suppressive fire from the target house to cover Team One moving back to the trucks. The flechette hit the deck he was lying on and burrowed through the wood, slicing Grover open as it passed under him, splitting his armor like a crab fork cuts through shell. Cobbs had him back inside the house and was working on keeping him from dying instantly while the rest of the team shot bad guys outside.

“Can’t believe we didn’t get Branch drone support for this,” Bronco said. He was back inside, reloading his rifle. “loving Devilbat in maintenance, shoulda had Tiger or Malice sections take this loving job.” He swiveled and took a knee again, leaning around the door jamb to shoot outside.

“God loving drat it,” Cobbs said to nobody in particular. “C’mon, Grove, hold the gently caress on.” Where the gently caress was Utah with the truck? He didn’t even hear the fifty shooting out there, what were she and Peter doing?

“Cobbs,” Grover moaned again. It’s all he’d said the past twenty minutes. “Cobbs,” and occasionally, “Mom.”

Baba from his window position, “Boss, got more hostiles coming in from the west. We need to get out of here right now, I mean now.”

“I got it, I got it,” Bronco said. Cobbs heard his voice cut in on the radio, “Six, this is Two, we’re pinned down up here and Grover’s dying. We need exfil now!”

“Two, this is Six. I got you. I’m getting One in the truck down here and Heavy’s ready to pull back his guns at my order. Get downstairs.”

“Roger. Moving.” Bronco ducked back inside the house, bullets whining through the doorway. “Heard the man, let’s loving move.”

Bronco helped Cobbs get Grover upright and half-carried him down the stairs. He was only barely conscious but somehow managed to move his own feet. Utah was waiting in the Dingo just outside the house when they burst through the door, and Peter was rocking the fifty. Bronco and Cobbs muscled Grover into Baba’s seat, and Cobbs climbed in on the other side, opened his medpack and got back to work.

“Everyone mounted?” Bronco asked from the front seat.

A chorus of affirmatives.

“Let’s get outta here, step on it.” He sliced the air with his hand. Utah stomped on the gas and Team Two led the way out of Ibadan.

#

“C’mon, Grover, you can hold it together,” Cobbs said. They were five minutes from the A&V compound and an air evac to the Nigerian Army hospital in Lagos. Grover’s monitor told Cobbs he was stable from the added fibrin and the dressings from the truck aid bag, but his vitals were still slipping away.

“How’s he doing back there?” Bronco asked.

“Real talk? loving dying.”

“You said you had him stable.”

“I know, but he’s lost too much blood,” Cobbs said. He looked back down at Grover and wiped the sweat from his brow. “We need to start carrying SuperPlas bags in the truck.”

“What we really loving needed was air cover. gently caress the Nigerian government for denying us airspace clearance.”

The minutes slipped by with the miles and Grover’s pulse went from really weak to barely there. Cobbs barely heard Bronco screaming at the gate guards over the radio to open up and retract the serpentine. Utah almost flipped the Dingo turning onto the HLZ at forty-five miles per hour. All Cobbs could see were red lines in his AR and hear the chip-voice telling him which of Grover’s organs were failing, one after the other.

He died as they loaded him onto the medevac bird. Cobbs looked at Utah where she stood next to the truck, her blonde braids whipping in the tilt-rotor’s downblast. He couldn’t tell if she had tears in her eyes or just dust.

Maybe he wouldn’t do the long-distance thing tonight. Maybe he needed something warm and real and right the gently caress here. Something to take his mind off of Grover’s eyes, lights burning out like dying matchheads.

Days like this, Cobbs really, really hated his job.

Martello fucked around with this message at 11:52 on Apr 10, 2013

Fanky Malloons
Aug 21, 2010

Is your social worker inside that horse?
Since I was bummed to miss the smalltown horror prompt way back at the beginning of the thread, I have decided to re-write that week's losing entry The End by forums user Jonas Salk

autism ZX spectrum
Feb 7, 2007

by Lowtax
Fun Shoe

Fanky Malloons posted:

Since I was bummed to miss the smalltown horror prompt way back at the beginning of the thread, I have decided to re-write that week's losing entry The End by forums user Jonas Salk

"It was cold in the freezer."

I dare you to keep the same opening line. You can't possibly hope to improve on it, anyway.

Kaishai
Nov 3, 2010

Scoffing at modernity.

Fanky Malloons posted:

Since I was bummed to miss the smalltown horror prompt way back at the beginning of the thread, I have decided to re-write that week's losing entry The End by forums user Jonas Salk

It is as though the waiter at a diner has brought me a tray full of sun-ripened horse rectums, and as I watch the maggots crawl about and question my life's decisions, it dawns on me that everyone else in the place is salivating over my plate. I try to hide in the freezer, to no avail. We are Legion. We are Thunderdome.

Kaishai fucked around with this message at 04:18 on Apr 10, 2013

JuniperCake
Jan 26, 2013

Kaishai posted:

It is as though the waiter at a diner has brought me a tray full of sun-ripened horse rectums, and as I watch the maggots crawl about and question my life's decisions, it dawns on me that everyone else in the place is salivating over my plate. I try to hide in the freezer, to no avail. We are Legion. We are Thunderdome.

Well of course people are salivating all over your plate; rectum makes great calamari. And everybody loves calamari(and rectums).

Erogenous Beef
Dec 20, 2006

i know the filthy secrets of your heart

Fanky Malloons posted:

Maybe I'm dense, but I don't understand the title? It's decently written, but there's no clear motivation for why this character is leaving his wife at the altar. I feel like there's two stories going on here, the wedding thing, and the relationship with the father, and the piece is just too short to have both of them there at the same time. However, your story does stand as an example to Willy Style of the good way to write this type of scenario, so let's move on to that story, shall we?

Xlendi is a place, the setting for the story, actually. That's also where the words mela ("well...") and marsa ("harbor") come from.

The wedding was a vestige of an earlier version which should've gotten revised out, as you and the other (wonderful, well-appreciated) critics have pointed out. The real story was supposed to be about the father-son relationship, but there were probably too few words to establish enough context for this to be meaningful. Oh well.

Edit: And no, you weren't supposed to need to know what or where Xlendi was. It's just flavor that informed some of the details, such as the colored boats.

Erogenous Beef fucked around with this message at 07:09 on Apr 10, 2013

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Chairchucker
Nov 14, 2006

to ride eternal, shiny and chrome

THUNDERDOME LOSER 2022





What the hell man that link doesn't work.

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